


Dance of Ten Silk Scarves

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dishonored AU, Drabble Collection, M/M, Transistor AU, multiple AUs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3327215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dorian of House Pavus and Lavellan of the Inquisition experience the little moments in life that crop up in between the greater ones.</p><p>One-shot series spanning both canon and AU-verses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirrors, Orlais, and Pigsties

**Author's Note:**

> I will go down with this ship. ~~This is so self indulgent, it's actually bad.~~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set pre-romance.
> 
> Featuring Mahanon Lavellan in canon-verse.

_in which Dorian worms himself into Lavellan's heart  
_ _(he never realises that it's happening to him too)_

* * *

There was this one time, before they'd ever gotten _together_ , that Dorian remembered very fondly.

It was... ah, a few days after he'd first joined the Inquisition. Lavellan had finally stumbled into his portion of the camp, made especially obvious by how the Inquisition would go out of their way to  _avoid_  going near the 'evil magister', while Dorian had been admiring himself in a mirror.

He had refused to feel embarrassed at being caught; after all, he was  _proud_  of who he was and especially of his assets. Namely, his looks.

"What is it with you  _shem'len_  and mirrors?" Lavellan asked in bemusement, watching Dorian as he continued to admire himself through the glass, turning his head from one side to the other, inspecting every inch of his face. "The Dalish have never seen the need for vanity. We find it... strange."

Dorian had then spent a few moments to nudge his mustache into submission, twirling it up into an arrogant arch once fully tamed. He could see through the looking glass how Lavellan's eyes had trailed down his form and had resisted the urge to preen.

Every inch of his body had been specifically tailored to be  _attractive_ after all; the altus knew perfectly well just how much of a honey trap he presented to both women and men (of the same inclinations as himself, of course).

And of  _course_  the Dalish elf would look at him and be surprised at how much of a paragon of a human he was, eventually becoming so impressed that he would become _enthralled_ and eventually profess his undying love that could overcome even across the centuries of slavery and stigmatisation of their sexuality that lay between their races...

It was only natural, really. Life was a cycle, and this was a particular pattern that had been tried and tested true. But that would be digressing.

"I could say the same about your Southerners and your lack of baths," Dorian had replied loftily, letting go of his mustache to turn around to face the elf. He had known without looking at the mirror that his hair was coiffed perfectly, there was no imperfection that the elf would be able to spy without coming skin-to-skin with Dorian.

Nevertheless, Dorian had found himself disconcerted by the intense stare that his looks had garnered from the elf.

It was... different to the judgmental stares that he would've gotten back at the Imperium. Lavellan's stare had been _appreciative_ and wondering, rather than criticising futilely. And it had been because of this that Dorian had paused for a few moments, unsure of how to proceed in... manipulating their conversation into something that would benefit him a lot more. _  
_

The magicracy had been, and still was, unforgiving to those unable to keep themselves afloat in the midst of political machinations.

So he had let a smile pass his features when Lavellan stared intently at his facial hair, allowing himself a moment of rather frivolous fondness and flattery at the Herald's attentions.

He had even leaned in slightly, his head tilting into a flirtatious angle as he looked upon at the elf who had leant in. The elf had looked fascinated by his features, enthralled by the way he manipulated the hairs on his face into something that looked fetching rather than messy.

Dorian himself had been more fascinated by the intelligent gleam in his blue eyes.

"And rather than _strange_ , it's plainly disgusting. It's rather a shame; I have no doubts that Fereldan would be a much more homely location to visit if it smelt less like a pigsty."

The pompous superiority of his words had endeared himself to the elf rather than detract from his physical attraction, which was obviously a good thing for Dorian. Lavellan would smile at him whenever Dorian said something particularly amusing or agreeable.

The corners of Lavellan's eyes crinkled up whenever he smiled. Dorian had found it... abominably  _cute_. And he still did, in all honesty.

With his smile on his face, Lavellan looked like a child given candy after a long day's romp in the fields with his miniature acquaintances. The admittedly endearing sight very much  _didn't_ induce feelings of fondness towards him. (Nevertheless, that day had been the first time he saw such a sight, and he'd been tempted numerous times after this to continue putting that particular expression on the elf's face—but that was a story for another day.)

With the appearance of laugh lines at the corner of his blue, blue eyes, Lavellan had covered one of his cheeks with a delicately placed hand. "Perhaps you might feel less at home in Orlais then."

Dorian had raised a brow. "Oh? Pray, do tell," he had goaded easily, his Tevene drawl becoming more apparent at the sight of such body language. Perhaps it was flirtatious; perhaps it was mischief.

However, all thoughts of his silent language had quickly disappeared at the elf's following words.

"I heard they smell more like bullshit." Lavellan had quipped, a dimple on his cheek.

There was a moment where Dorian couldn't do much else other than stare the elf, who had looked utterly unrepentant at his words.

Behind them, Dorian was suddenly aware of what onlookers they had.

He had been able to see the covered head of Mother Giselle peering out of a window that looked out over the courtyard they were in, anxiously watching Dorian as he talked with Lavellan—

And the mage hadn't been able to do much else but laugh.

Orlesian bullshit indeed.


	2. Drunken Whaler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set with a budding romance.
> 
> Featuring Atisha'din Lavellan in the role of Corvo from the game, Dishonoured. This is set during the mission "Lady Boyle's Last Party".
> 
>  **Warnings for this chapter** :  
> Past Cass/Lav, incest mention, blood mention, death mention, non-canon character death

_In which Dorian takes Piero's role  
_

* * *

A curious thing, Lavellan decided, about the Anchor upon his hand was that though it often glowed without provocation, it was only when he was beside Dorian that it would gleam so bright that he could illuminate the darkest of caves with its unearthly green light.

"Marvelous," Dorian exclaimed offhandedly, reaching out to trace his fingers over the eerie mark. The glow dimmed by only a fraction. "It's like it's  _begging_ for people to take notice of you when you skulk around in the dark for your next target."

Lavellan could see how the green light would caress Dorian's face, lighting it up in a sinister way. His eyes were hooded by his thick and long lashes, his cheekbones would sharpen, light and dark would be divided by sharp lines not usually attributed to human faces. But he found it charming how his features would soften as if to make up for the harshness that the light would paint upon his features.

"It doesn't glow when I'm on a mission, strangely enough." Lavellan offered as an explanation, watching as Dorian took hold of his hand to take a closer look.

"I wonder why it does that. And  _how_ it does that." Dorian replied, inspecting his hand closely. His breath was warm against his wrist. "I've only ever seen such bioluminescence in creatures recovered from Pandyssia or the depths of the ocean; do tell me, has any of your Serkonan ancestors engaged in...  _sordid_ activities with a variety of exotic beasts? It's quite possible that such a mutation may have occurred due to such activity." _  
_

The cheeky smirk on Dorian's face made Lavellan laugh softly.

"Should I be offended that you would imply such a thing about my lineage?" The elf asked, tilting his head to the side.

Dorian mirrored his movement, looking at him with mischievous but curious eyes. He had let go of Lavellan's hand, and it fell down to rest at his side.

"I would  _never_ presume such a thing. We Morley are merely...  _ah_ , uninterested to learn more about other cultures within the Empire. For all we know, Serkonans had a penchant for taking animals into bed." Dorian said nonchalantly.

Lavellan's lips twitched, and he tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear.

The Anchor seemed to wink at the motion, its light pulsating every so often.

"That isn't too far off. Serkonans are often _called_ animals in bed for how... voracious some of us can get." Lavellan trailed off rather provocatively, waiting for Dorian's response.

"Voracious? What a strange word to use." Dorian's eyebrows were raised.

"Indeed; you'd think that Tyvians would be more voracious, considering how much they love their food."

"Even if they are more... hungry, I doubt that they would ever be as  _passionate_ as my people," Dorian said finally, the corners of his lips tilted into a pleasant smile. "The Morley people are defined by their rather bullheaded and single-minded intent. And I can assure you, I'm _quite_ intent on, hm, keeping you." Dorian lapsed into momentary thought, before adding a quick, "Alive, you see... and I have no doubts that this obsession will continue for quite some time."

There was a bubbling feeling in the pit of Lavellan's stomach at the sight of his smile and at his words. It left him rather... exhilarated. It wasn't often that he would feel like this; it was a feeling that he'd only ever felt when he had stood by the Divine Victoria's side.

He missed her.

But the way the inventor was responding to his flirting made the elf lean in a little.

He could see Dorian's eyes linger on his neck, where the collar of his shirt had widened slightly to reveal his skin. Lavellan wondered what Dorian would do when he gave him permission to touch him intimately.

"I'm sure the Inquisition all benefits from your _single-minded_ intent," Lavellan agreed warmly. "I know I certainly am thankful for your... attentions." He pulled back slightly, getting onto his feet to wander away from the outside platform and back into Dorian's workshop.

He paused by the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the Morley.

Dorian was looking back at him with a strange look in his eye.

The Anchor on his hand was starting to dim and fade from its green glow into its black ink.

"I'll attempt to bring a bottle of King's brandy the next time I visit," the elf called out, smiling. "I'll make sure that I wipe the blood off the glass first."

The Morley laughed. "You should know that I hate that stuff unlike Vivienne; it's utterly horrid. I don't know how she stands it. The addition of whale oil makes it tastes worse than rat skewers." There was a moment where Dorian thought, letting his eyes linger on Lavellan's body. "Do bring just yourself instead, without any wounds of any kind. It would put quite a damper on the mood our little... rendezvous will no doubt set."

He paused again, before turning away from Lavellan, looking out into the harbour.

"You shouldn't linger for much longer. Lady Chalons' party will not wait for its guest of honour to arrive. Check the workshop counter for the sleeping bolts you requisitioned from me; there should be six in total."

"Thank you, Dorian." Lavellan replied softly, eyes lingering on Dorian's profile. He then turned around to head into the workshop, walking down the steps.

He would be back in a few hours, after dealing with the Lord Regent's mistress.

* * *

The mansion was exquisite.

The people within were decadently dressed.

It had been a simple task for him to slip into the party and make his way to the top floor, sneaking into the rooms of Lord and Lady Chalons' and their guests' to find out what he needed.

Lord Gaspard Chalons hid numerous things in his room—secrets that could ruin him, a barely hidden obsession for his sister, one of Vivienne du Fer's paintings—but none that signaled his allegiance towards the Lord Regent. He stole the lord's money, his paintings, the journal that bespoke of his madness based upon incestuous desires.

It could prove to be useful in the long run.

Searching the rooms of the guests, he found nothing of value save for a rune hidden away in a closet, but nothing to tell him of the mistress' name or identity. It had only been in Lady Florianne Chalons' room that he found a letter from Corypheus and a key to Dunwall Tower.

He took them both.

He left the upper-floor rooms to rejoin the party, locating Gaspard easily enough.

Lady Chalons' own brother had abducted her with Lavellan's help.

He was going to take her far from Gristol and assured Lavellan that she would never set foot in Dunwall ever again, not while Corypheus still breathed and not while Lavellan had all of their dirty secrets within his hands.

The feverish look in Gaspard's eyes, visible despite the mask covering his face, had chilled Lavellan to the bone. The sheer obsession in them, nothing of a familial love but that of a predator's delight, made him seem more inhuman than anything else. But he wouldn't let himself falter; he was doing this for the Inquisition, to get revenge for Cassandra and restore Leliana to the throne.

So he left the mansion quickly, keeping his mask firmly on and his hand hovering over his daggers the entire time.

Dodging the tallboys and the soldiers surrounding the premises was not much of a problem for the former Lord Protector. He stayed within the shadows, Blinking from place to place, and the elf soon found himself standing in front of one of Fen'harel's shrines inside one of the buildings surrounding the Chalons' mansion.

The green glow surrounding the rune made him hesitate, before reaching out to take it.

The Anchor on his hand let out a bright beam of light, the green transcending itself to become white and blinding Lavellan, who let out a choked cry of shock. His arm went over his eyes, protecting them from the blinding whiteness.

Immediately after the glow faded, he was confronted by Fen'harel's visage.

The deity stood before the shrine, solemn and tall, staring at him with a blank face and his arms crossed over his chest.

"Coming from a party, Atisha'din? Is that what you dreamed of, all those months in Coldridge Prison while waiting for the executioner? Wealth, beautiful women in the latest fashions, laughing and drinking Tyvian wine? And what of the host, Lady Chalons?" Fen'harel tilted his head to the side, and his dark hair, spun into tight dreadlocks, swayed with the movement.

Lavellan shook his head, clutching the rune tightly in his fist. "You know what I've dreamt of. The Divine Victoria, _Cassandra_ , was murdered in front of me. Leliana was stolen from my arms. I was powerless to stop it."

Those nights at Coldridge... all he could remember was how the warmth in Cassandra's eyes had been destroyed within moments of his arrival. She'd looked so happy to see him alive. She'd looked so pained to see him as she died.

And he'd failed in his promise to Cassandra that he would protect Leliana.

Fen'harel's lips finally parted into a faint smile. "But now you have power to stop _anything_. The Lady Chalons supported a tyrant, the Lord Regent. And lived in opulence while the people of the city starve to death and live in fear of plague. Now she'll live out her days, month after month, year after year, far away, even as her fine clothes wear into tatters and her silken hair gets dull and gray. Plenty of time for reflection."

"I was too kind to her." Lavellan spat ruthlessly. "Who knows what else she'd done in the past? A life in exile is too light a sentence for a murderer."

The irony of his words wasn't lost to either of them.

"But you spared her. I wonder what this says about you, Atisha'din? You continue to interest me. I cannot wait to see what you have in store for Dunwall in the future," the deity murmured, disappearing suddenly, leaving Lavellan standing there, alone and silent in front of his shrine.

Staring angrily at the rune, he let out another curse, before placing it into one of his bags, where two of Vivienne's paintings lay coiled up into tight scrolls. The rune rattled against the leather.

Lavellan spun tightly on the spot and Blinked away.

* * *

Varric spoke of tales in a quiet voice throughout their journey back to the Hounds Pit Pub, lulling Lavellan into a state of calm where before, he'd been angry. Meetings with Fen'harel were ones that he'd always dreaded.

Water lapped against the side of the boat, and Lavellan could see hagfish swim around them, waiting for flesh to be lain under the surface of the water to be torn to shreds by vicious teeth.

Instead, he toyed with his dagger, looking out across the water until they docked.

Josephine, Cullen and Lord Rainier greeted him at the harbour of the pub, congratulating him for putting a stop to Lady Chalons and telling him to take a rest.

He took his mask off, saying a quick farewell to Varric before he walked away from the harbourside. He would have retired to his room at the very top of the pub, but he instead found Vivienne in her cell and talked to her for a few minutes.

She'd asked him about the party. He gave her instead her two paintings that he'd found, which she'd stared at for a few moments.

"How strange you are, Lord Protector," she murmured finally. Her opulent headdress lay on the bedroll beside her, and she left it there as she stood up to take her paintings from him. "You hold so much power, more than you could ever know, yet you don't care for it."

Lavellan shook his head, watching as she straightened the paintings out, her fingers smoothing over the paints in nostalgia. "I only need enough to do what I am meant to do."

Vivienne looked up from the heavy canvas in her hands. Her dark eyes were intrigued, bright in curiosity. "You aren't just the Lord Protector. I can see the mark of Fen'harel on your hand. Do you worship him as I do, I wonder?"

The elf didn't answer, pulling away from her cell to walk out of the room.

In the courtyard outside of the pub, he instead walked towards Leliana's tower, where at the base of which Sera could occasionally be found, skipping rocks by the docks. He Blinked up to the walkway above.

Leliana was in the tower, waiting for him.

She beamed at him, smiling widely as she launched herself into his arms. Laughing as he twirled her around, she clung to his neck like a barnacle to the hull of a boat.

"Atisha! I'm so glad you're safe!"

Her voice was balm to his ears, and Lavellan didn't hold back the smile on his face as he kissed her temple.

"I'm glad that you're safe too, Leliana." He replied, squeezing her lightly. He then bent down to set her back onto the floor, but she continued to hold on, hanging off of the floor with a gleeful laugh. "Were you causing trouble for Josephine and Ms Harding?" Lavellan asked fondly, straightening back up when it seemed she wouldn't let go of him.

In front of them, Lace Harding laughed. "She was no trouble at all, Lord Lavellan," she explained warmly. "Her Highness was a delight to teach; I have no doubts that she will be a wonderful Divine when the time comes."

"I know she will." Lavellan's smile had slipped slightly, but Leliana didn't notice, thankfully.

She unlatched her arms from around Lavellan's neck and dropped to the floor lightly, darting forward to grab a scroll of paper from the side. She then brandished it at the former Lord Protector, a toothy grin on her face.

"This is for you! I made it for you, while you were off on one of your missions..."

Upon closer perusal, he noticed that it was of Lavellan's face, drawing lovingly by clumsy hands, depicting his unruly black hair and his sharp blue eyes, lines of dark red adorning his features in the shape of Mythal's  _vallaslin_.

The assassin touched the drawing, oddly moved by the gesture.

"Leliana... it's marvelous," he murmured softly, taking it and carefully pocketing it. Pulling her into his arms, he placed another kiss on the top of her head. "Thank you."

She reminded him so much of Cassandra; kind in the most painfully wonderful of ways.

"I'll draw you something else!" Leliana promised seriously, and he placed a hand on her red hair, gently ruffling it.

"I'll look forward to it," he promised just as seriously, solemnly even. "I'm sure it will be just as great as this one,"

Her resulting smile bloomed across her features like a rose, and he couldn't help but feel a surge of bittersweet love within his chest. This was why he had been the Lord Protector to the Divine; he wanted to protect Cassandra's child from all of the horrors of Dunwall and the world.

And to do that, he would have to strike Corypheus straight through the heart first.

Bidding both Lace and Leliana a goodbye, he left the tower to return to the walkway which connected to Dorian's workshop.

Silently, Lavellan made his way along the raised pathway constructed out of corrugated metal and patchwork cement. He paused at the platform just outside of the workshop, gazing out towards the waters.

The sun was starting to set, and if he could forget the plague that was running through the streets of Dunwall, he could almost let himself believe that the city was a beautiful place to live in.

But Cassandra was dead, and Corypheus sat on the throne. The plague was killing the city's inhabitants, and Leliana was still unsafe.

He turned away from the sunset, and walked into the workshop, keeping his every step quiet.

* * *

Dorian was downstairs, and he could see through the grilles on the floor that the inventor was tinkering with a prototype of his crossbow to upgrade the handling.

He was doing such a thing despite knowing that Lavellan's eyes and steady hand would still be superior to whatever technology he could implant into the weapon, and Lavellan couldn't help but feel a rush of affection for the Morley inventor. It was gratifying to know that someone could care so much for his wellbeing; that he would try to take care of any possible problems that Lavellan could encounter during his missions.

It rather reminded him of the late Divine, who had often fussed over him despite their differing occupations.

He smiled, quietly dropping down from the top floor, landing at the foot of the stairs without a sound to alert the man. He walked the few steps it took for him to stand behind Dorian, getting onto his tiptoes to peer down at the crossbow over his shoulder.

"Is this a bad time?" He asked, lips right beside Dorian's ear.

The lack of prior warning made Dorian jump and curse, spinning around to stare angrily at Lavellan. The elf had quickly backed up a few steps, unable to hold back the grin on his face at having caught the genius by surprise. Even Dorian's mustache seemed to bristle at the indignation.

" _Fasta vaas!_ You—give me some warning, some _sound_ , if you're going to sneak around like a ghost in my workshop!" Dorian exclaimed, a hand brandished to thrust a finger at Lavellan's chest. "What if I'd been working with one of my saws? No doubts you haven't thought of the consequences of such a thing...

"Let me spell it out for you: startling Dorian with a saw leads to a Dorian with no hand, which has the inevitably and unfortunate effect of having a Lavellan with no pretty little trinket or weapon to throw about without thought. Imagine that! You'd be ruined. _I'd_ be ruined! We'd all be ruined!"

Lavellan was laughing softly by the time Dorian had quietened down. The genius Morley had this strange quality about him that always chased away whatever negativity he had prior to seeing him. He rather liked it.

Nevertheless, Dorian was the kind of man that seemed to revel in positivity and Lavellan's adoration, and he was more than happy to supply both.

"It would be very unfortunate," he agreed, smiling as he took hold of Dorian's hand, pulling it closer so that his palm lay flat over his chest. "It was lucky, then, that you weren't working with a saw."

The human blinked, before he let out a soft snort. "Indeed we both were." He pulled his hand from Lavellan's grip to raise it, curling it around the back of his neck. Stroking the velvety hair located at the base of his skull, he let his expression fade into one that was softer.

His grey eyes were warm, and Lavellan could see each individual eyelash and how they curled up and out. They fluttered with each blink. It was quite enchanting, really; the elf loved the intelligence and mischief that could be found within them.

"Did you get yourself hurt while out partying? I can imagine it being very hard work, having to mingle with the upper class while eating your little Tyvian delicacies, not to mention having to flirt with the decadent selection of pedigree nobles," Dorian remarked as his fingers strayed further up, tangling into the longer strands of black hair at the crown of Lavellan's head. "Not to mention, it must be fairly difficult having to interact with the  _bourgeois_ —'Sblood, the horror of it!—afterwards."

The elf leaned into his touch. "Let's say that I  _did_ get hurt. Are you going to nurse me back to full health, Dorian?" He goaded, smiling.

"I doubt I'd be able to fit into one of those Nightingale outfits that the nobles seem so very fond of," the human replied blithely. "But I could find myself trying one on, just for you. Besides, I seem to find myself recalling that old practice—pure old wives' tales, I tell you—where a kiss is supposed to make your sores go away?"

Lavellan laughed. He took a step closer towards Dorian, tilting his head up to look at the other. "It seems that my mouth's starting to hurt quite a bit from talking; are you going to kiss it better for me?"

"Are you trying to seduce me within this workshop? I must say, you're doing a very good job of it," Dorian commented wryly, even as he dipped in to press their lips together. It was short and chaste, enough to make Lavellan want another. "I might even be tempted to let you have your way with me here, where we could find ourself knocking that conveniently placed whale oil tank and making it blow up with us at the epicentre of it all."

They both glanced over at the aforementioned tank, where it lay precariously close to the edge of Dorian's workbench.

"Perhaps you should come up to my room," Lavellan remarked quietly. He curled his fingers around Dorian's hands. His Anchor was glowing again, but they both ignored it with the ease of long practice. "There's a significantly lower risk of getting oneself hurt there."

"Perhaps I _should_ go up to your room," Dorian replied lightly. "Perhaps we might be able to... ah, occupy ourselves delightfully."

"I'm sure we could find something," Lavellan agreed, smiling when Dorian's fingers squeezed his.

His blue eyes met Dorian's grey ones, and he could see the uncertainty in the Morley's eyes.

Was he unsure whether to take the next step in their courtship? He knew that Dorian didn't like the certainty of commitment. He'd suffered under his father's hands for his inclinations. Lavellan didn't want to add to Dorian's hardship by pressing him into a relationship that he wasn't ready to commit to; he was comfortable with their minor flirtations and occasional kisses, and was more than willing to sacrifice his need for physicality to put Dorian at ease.

After all, it was enough for Lavellan, who needed something to fill the rest of the void in his heart that Leliana was helping to mend.

"But we could go to the pub instead. I'm sure Varric's already there, drinking himself to oblivion with Sera and the Iron Bull," Lavellan suggested finally. "Or I could borrow Cullen's chessboard from his office. I'm sure he won't miss it too much."

Dorian's eyes softened at the suggestion, and his lips quirked up into a crooked smile. The smile put Lavellan at ease, so he didn't stop the slight flush that was creeping up his neck at the sight of such a handsome expression on Dorian's face.

"Perhaps we'd be able to win at Wicked Grace for once," the Morley agreed. "And perhaps we could teach Leliana how to play, as well?"

"She'd enjoy it," Lavellan murmured. "And it'll be nice to have one night of leisure before... it all ends." He trailed off.

It was strange to think about it.

He had no doubts that his next mission would be at Dunwall Tower, where Corypheus awaited. And once the tyrant was dead, everything would have to return to normalcy—and where would that leave him and Dorian?

Dorian's fingers brushed against the underside of his jaw. "Don't think too hard about it, Lavellan. Things will work out the way they do. Look at where being kicked out of the academy got me; in the midst of the Inquisition, with du Fer _finally_  in a cell, and a delightful elf in my arms!"

Lavellan smiled at his words, and he shook his head, accepting his reassurances without much more preamble. Nevertheless, he couldn't shake off this strange sense of dread from the pit of his stomach as he followed Dorian out of the workshop and into the pub.

Why did he feel as if something would go wrong soon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serkonos: the Dales  
> Morley: Tevinter  
> Gristol: Fereldan  
> Tyvia: Orlais  
> Continent of Pandyssia: Ancient El'vhen'an
> 
> Glossary:  
>  _Fasta vass_ : Tevene curse word  
>  _Vallaslin_ : Dalish/Elvish for 'blood writing', referring to the facial tattoos adult Dalish elves have  
>  _'Sblood_ : English curse word, derived from the oath "God's blood"
> 
> Trivia:  
> \- Lavellan's name in this universe, Atisha'din, translates loosely into "the peace within death".  
> \- Leliana would have called Lavellan "Din" if he'd gone down the High Chaos route, and "Atisha'din" in the Medium Chaos.  
> \- Daud is replaced by Garrett Hawke.


	3. We All Become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set post-romance.
> 
> Featuring Red Lavellan as Red, from the game Transistor, and the Inquisition as the Camerata. Set just before encountering the Spine of the World.

_In which a soundless voice speaks more_

* * *

It had only been after he'd been attacked that the Process had flooded Cloudbank.

Corrupted beyond measure, the Process began to degrade the ephemeral city into something that was ultimately—dead, dying, decaying. People disappeared, faster than ever, leaving only the barest of Traces where their bodies would have lain.

Lavellan didn't know much about the Process.

He knew only that the Process was inevitable, that it would corrupt and mutate faster than imaginable, that the Inquisition had something to do with it. And that they had created the Transistor, which had robbed him of not only his voice, but of his lover.

The former would have been hard enough to forgive. The latter demanded retribution.

He hadn't been able to see the face of who had attacked him backstage of his last performance, had been too slow to react to the sudden danger, but Dorian had shoved him back before the Transistor could be thrust through his chest.

And Dorian had died, leaving him alone with nothing but a glowing sword, whispering with Dorian's voice and speaking with Dorian's humour.

Ripping the feathery cloak from his shoulders, he'd shrugged on Dorian's cape and took the Transistor from his chest.

And he fought through the Process to locate the Inquisition: Leliana had been the first of the three that he'd found.

She'd confronted him in the Empty Set, a husk of who she'd formerly been; her Selections of Espionage and Organisation hadn't been enough to save her. She'd been almost completely Processed, glowing with the ominous red of **lyrium:prcs**.

He destroyed her, and her Trace had been integrated into the Transistor,  **help()** ing him from then on. Within her Trace, he found a key. And he took it.

And then, he left to venture deeper into the city.

Along his journey to find the other two of the Inquisition, he found multiple other Traces, found how they were locked within the Transistor itself.

They unlocked their secrets as he fought against the relentless waves of Process.

Dorian told him of their thoughts, of their functions, how they wanted to help him. How the Inquisition had captured them. But for what? None of them had any idea; all they had were speculation and guesswork, but Lavellan delighted in their stories.

There was no other distraction from the steady increase of destruction around them.

He watched as Cloudbank slowly died off with cancerous growth.

He hated it.

He hated how he had to fight without stop, but there was no other choice for him if he wanted to stop the Process and restore Dorian from the Transistor. He needed to save Cloudbank if he wanted to save Dorian.

But because of the constant traveling and fighting, it wasn't often that Lavellan could take a moment to breathe.

He stopped every few hours to catch his breath, stopped to find some food and to eat it ravenously. He stopped to listen to Dorian advise him. He stopped when he found a Backdoor.

Leliana's key had come in handy then, allowing him to steal away into a Backdoor and away from the increasingly distorted Cloudbank.

It was a relief for him, to find the Sandbox so untouched by the Process. He could relax here, take his mind away from the destruction outside, from his mission if only for a few precious scant moments. It seemed that whenever he slipped away, time would stop outside; he was safe in here.

A Fetch Process awaited him in the Sandbox, barking happily when it saw Lavellan. Luna nosed the beach ball next to it, hitting it towards the former musician. Lavellan hit it back towards the mabari, before he moved to the gramophone at the corner of the beach.

He fiddled with it momentarily, and surely enough, music began to fill the formerly silent space.

All We Become. One of his first songs.

He could hear his own voice singing back to him, and he could feel a physical pain stab through him at the thought that he wouldn't be able to sing along to anything anymore. He couldn't hear himself speak, sing, think aloud. Couldn't respond to Dorian.

`    [Don't think too hard, Red. You'll only be hurting yourself.]`

Dorian's humour was tempered by the concern evident in his filtered voice, and he glanced down at the sword. Its cyan surface pulsed with each word that he spoke. It was a beautiful sight.

`    [That's right. If you're going to think about something, at least think about me instead; thoughts about me are always pleasant.]`

Lavellan huffed out a soft laugh, quickly pushing aside his hurt. Dorian always seemed to be able to tell what he was doing, even without his voice. He didn't want his lover to be more concern than he needed to be.

Laying himself down on the hammock, he closed his eyes, arms going around the Transistor.

`    [ _Amatus_. Are you listening to me?]`

Lavellan hummed softly in response, though he didn't open his eyes.

`    [Hah... you're not convincing me that you are, _amatus_.]`

Another huff of laughter left Lavellan's lips, displaying his amusement as best as he could despite his lack of a voice. The concern in Dorian's voice had become more apparent despite his teasing, as if he was more than aware of Lavellan's exhaustion, and that he was attempting to distract him from it.

He splayed his hand across the gently glowing surface of the Transistor instead, trying to display his thoughts physically. He could feel how it pulsed with warmth under his touch.

`    [I know what you're trying to say; that you're fine. And you're quite right: you're a _very_ fine man. But you always were a cheeky brat, weren't you? You always enjoyed driving me to madness with your little games.]`

Dorian's voice was soothing despite its filtered quality, and the sound of it always brought with it a sense of bittersweet affection. He wished he could respond to him like he used to.

It was as close as he could now get to Dorian.

`    [Indulge me for once. Would you sing for me,  _amatus_? It's not the same hearing your songs on the gramophone that Leliana left, and... I miss it.]`

Lavellan missed it too, the days when they would stay at his apartment in Highrise, lying in bed as he sang the day and night away. His Selections had been in Music and Linguistics; it was what he had been made,  _chosen_ to do.

He had loved sharing his passion with Dorian. After all, he'd met Dorian while singing. Losing what had brought them together had hurt more than Lavellan would have expected.

The former singer opened his eyes, staring up into the sky painted above them.

Planets and stars spun above them, dancing across the graduated background of a dying day. Based upon the records left behind by the Camerata, it was probably one of the last skies that the renowned sky-painter Solas had left for Cloudbank. And it was a beautiful sight to see.

He wished that Dorian had the eyes to see it too.

The sorrow of lost opportunities and intimate moments welled up inside of him, and he let out a soft hum, using what little was left of his voice to echo the melody of one of his songs. At first, it was hesitant.

But his hums steadily grew in confidence.

It wasn't long before Dorian joined in. His voice, filtered and distorted as it was, never sounded better.

`    [ _Think I'll go where it suits me, move out to the country... With everyone, oh everyone, before we all become one._ ]`

His arms tightened around the Transistor again, before he let go of it. The tip grazed then settled into the sand beside the hammock, and he set it upright by forcing it deeper into the ground. His hand stayed on the pommel of the sword. Humming the interlude of the song a little louder, he sang as best as he could alongside Dorian despite the lack of his voice.

Dorian's voice petered out as Lavellan's hums faded out. The music in the record player changed to Paper Boats.

Luna had walked up to him and settled its head on his knee, and he reached out to stroke the Process lightly on the head. The Process whined metallically. He hushed it quietly, a soft and soothing sound leaving his lips.

`     [You've never done that with me.]`

Lavellan glanced over at the Transistor, an inquiring sound leaving him.

`     [Touch me like that. I think I should be jealous.]`

He huffed softly in laughter despite the melancholy in his heart, and he reached out to gently stroke the Transistor in a facsimile of a friendly pat. Leaning in, he rested his forehead momentarily against the pommel of the Transistor, brushing his lips against the edge of the tang.

The taste of metal and sweat was on his lip, and the Transistor was cold and resistant to the gentle pressure of the kiss.

Lavellan let out a soft sigh against the sword, and he pulled away from the mockery of a kiss.

Dorian was silent, and he couldn't hold back the sharp pang that went through him. What had he been thinking? He was such a fool.

No matter what he wished, the single act of his kiss wouldn't have been enough to return Dorian. That kind of resolution was reserved solely for fairytales. The only thing that could bring Dorian back was the Inquisition.

The Process nuzzled the hand that was still on its head, and instead of indulging its silent request, he stood up. He grabbed the Transistor and dragged it along behind him, leaving gouges in the sand as he slipped out of the Backdoor and back into Cloudbank.

Behind them, the trail in the sand was wiped clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a quickie. I don't even know what I was trying to do with this.


End file.
